


the sublime physical manifestation of divine love

by Deputychairman



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post-Credits Scene, i am here to suggest: angels are beings of pure love, i know david tennant slutty but, in an iconic London hotel?, so which one of them would know more about spiritually uplifting life affirming sex?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 03:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19243204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deputychairman/pseuds/Deputychairman
Summary: “Not objecting, just a point of uh, theological interest: is this a temptation? I mean areyoutemptingmehere, or is it…uhm?”Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to protest, closed it again, and finally offered: “Well actually now that you mention it I suppose it is. I mean I am, yes. But temptation seems such a loaded word, doesn’t it? I just thought, in for a penny in for a pound – if they’re even watching they already know we’ve been consorting together, so we might as well make the most of it. Consort to our hearts’ content, so to speak.”





	the sublime physical manifestation of divine love

**Author's Note:**

> I am a simple woman with simple desires, and what I desired was a post credits scene of hereditary enemies having spiritually uplifting, life-affirming sex in a very nice hotel room. But Deputy, haven't you written exactly this kind of story before, I hear you ask? Yes. Yes I have. Next question.

It wasn’t at all what he was expecting Aziraphale to say over the second bottle of champagne after their truly spectacular lunch at the Ritz. In fact it was almost the last thing he was expecting Aziraphale to say, and so it was probably only surprise that made him sound so peevish.

“What, with a human? Which one?” he asked, looking over one shoulder and then the other to identify the culprit. Candidate. Whatever.

“No, of course not with a human.”

Aziraphale was looking at him fondly, patiently, like it was completely obvious what he meant and he was sure Crowley was following him. Crowley had had 6000 years of practice in following Aziraphale and he had a reasonable idea where he was heading, but he was getting there via the sort of steep and twisty mountain road that makes your head and stomach swirl so badly that by the time you reach the spectacular view you need to sit down for ten minutes before you can really take it in. Perhaps not wanting to waste the ten minutes, Aziraphale added with a hesitant smile:

“I meant with _you_ , my dear fellow.”

“You _do_ that?”

Of course he’d wondered – of course he had. He had even, briefly, at the end of the world that wasn’t, taken a moment to regret that it was among the few earthly pleasures that the two of them had never sampled together, before concluding that it was all for the best. If the humans were anything to go by, indulging in the pleasures of the flesh with somebody you actually liked and hoped to carry on seeing was almost a guarantee of disaster. (He had also taken the credit for a couple of particularly deviant acts which the humans had thought up all by themselves, which didn’t weigh on his conscience at all and was neither here nor there.)

“Don’t you?” asked Aziraphale, sounding honestly surprised. “I must admit I had just assumed that you…” he gestured at Crowley’s lounging sprawl beside him at the table, as if his physical form inherently implied concupiscence.

“Ugh, no.” Crowley produced a theatrical full-body shudder, the better to keep a protective ironic distance from the topic at hand. “Humans got all weird and hung up about it, someone must have mentioned it to head office and that was that. It was all, seduce a monk here, corrupt a bishop there, a lot of crying and wailing over nothing. After a millennium of that I went off it.” He leaned forward, resting more of his body weight on the table than most furniture would withstand but the Ritz is the Ritz for a reason, and looked up at Aziraphale from over his sunglasses. “But I didn’t know you – your lot – went in for it. Are you sure it isn’t one of ours?”

“Of course I’m sure!” cried Aziraphale. “It’s one of the sublime physical manifestations of divine love!”

Crowley continued to look at him over the top of his sunglasses.

“Alright, I’ll concede that the follow up has been very poor – all that guilt and morality the humans put in there, not to mention the grievous misuses – but that’s free will for you. You can steer people in the right direction, but you can’t make their choices for them.”

He’d gone righteous for a moment, and it wasn’t that Crowley minded – you can’t be friends with an angel for as long as he had if you were going to get upset every time a bit of righteousness popped up - but he did prefer it when Aziraphale almost palpably put the righteousness aside and murmured, “I just always thought it was rather nice, that’s all. I only used it very sparingly, when one of them absolutely needed spiritual reinforcement so as not to succumb to despair or something dreadful like that.”

It didn’t sound much like the guilt-filled, goal-oriented tussles Crowley had carried out.

“And you’re suggesting it now because…?” he asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

“It just seems like the right sort of thing to celebrate it not being the end of the world, don’t you think?” He put his head on one side and positively blindsided Crowley with a smile that went right into him and made him glow from the inside. “A splendid lunch, rather a lot to drink – if we’re in human form and embracing the physicality of creation and its continued existence, I thought we might as well go all the way.”

Crowley made _a do go on_ , gesture that almost but didn’t quite knock over his glass of champagne. There wasn’t really much more to add, he suspected, but he was still trying to match the idea of _the sublime physical manifestation of divine love_ with his recollections of grubby human fingers and grunting followed by the awkward, sticky silences, and just needed Aziraphale to carry on talking.  

“And besides, I’ve never actually stayed at the Ritz before, and a very nice room has just miraculously become free under your name, so…”

Of course Crowley followed him up. He tipped handsomely in the restaurant, and followed Aziraphale into the lift. He was trying to remember the last time he had done anything like this (was it that monastery in Badajoz? The monk who said, “you don’t have to leave yet, do you Brother Crowley?” with such a winning smile?) and wondering if it had changed in the 800 or so years since. It would be a little embarrassing to have to admit to Aziraphale that he hadn’t kept up with the times.

Aziraphale gestured him out of the lift on the seventh floor, where the suites were, and took his arm to steer him down a long, opulently carpeted corridor. He could feel the faintest tingle where the angel’s hand rested on his sleeve. He could smell that new cologne (Aziraphale’s barber had excellent taste), and their footsteps didn’t make any sound at all. His mouth seemed to have gone strangely dry. It was just as well he didn’t take his sunglasses off indoors, because he flicked his most snakelike sideways glance at Aziraphale just as he looked over and smiled at him like he was glad to be here with Crowley and nobody else, and the tingle from his sleeve shimmered all the way over him like liquid sunshine.

By all earthly rules of economics, an antiquarian book seller who almost never sells any books should not be able to afford a suite at the Ritz. Its normal clientele are Russian oligarchs, minor royalty from assorted petrostates, and the discreet representatives of offshore hedge funds. (Neither Crowley or Aziraphale knew what hedge funds were, but this was a deliberate ignorance: they both loved the world, and we sometimes choose to overlook the flaws in the things we love.) But angels have a keen sense of fairness, and leaving such a top-class hotel for the exclusive use of the obnoxiously wealthy hardly seemed fair.

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley as the door to the suite closed behind them. The suite was the size of a small sports field and he had to raise his voice. He also had to crack the knuckles on his left hand and then his right, take off his sunglasses then put them back on again.

“Yes, my dear?” Aziraphale was standing very close to him all of a sudden.

“Not objecting, just a point of uh, theological interest: is this a temptation? I mean are _you_ tempting _me_ here, or is it…uhm?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth as if to protest, closed it again, and finally offered: “Well actually now that you mention it I suppose it is. I mean I am, yes. But temptation seems such a loaded word, doesn’t it? I just thought, in for a penny in for a pound – if they’re even watching they already know we’ve been consorting together, so we might as well make the most of it. Consort to our hearts’ content, so to speak.”

Crowley blinked at him. He still had his sunglasses on so Aziraphale couldn’t see it, but he blinked.

“Right. To our hearts’ content,” he echoed. It did not feel up to his usual conversational standards, but that heart in his human form was beating very fast and it was distracting him.

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, putting his hands very gently on Crowley’s hips.

“And this is your…consorting – heart’s content, is it?”

“I rather think it is, yes,” said Aziraphale, and kissed him.

 

The mechanics of consumation did not seem have changed in the 800 years since Crowley last bothered with it, but somebody appeared to have been tinkering with the settings. What used to be a faintly sticky, by-the-numbers means to achieve a quick corruption in the 13th century was now quite transformed. It was gentler, more intense, unpredictable; alarmingly emotional. He had a terrible feeling his immortal soul might be involved.

It was letting Aziraphale take him to bed – quite literally take him by the hand and lead him there as if he wouldn’t have found the way by himself – and press him down into the pillows, the precise earthly weight of his body a revelation of something he’d known for thousands of years. It was Aziraphale’s hand behind his head as he pushed him down, as if the pillows at the Ritz might not be soft enough for him to safely land on and he needed a celestial cushion to protect him from them.

“I’m a _demon_ , Aziraphale, you don’t have to be so bloody nice to me,” he muttered.

“But I want to,” said Aziraphale. “You’re my friend and you’ve been nice to me so many times, I would hate you to think I didn’t appreciate it.”

It was letting Aziraphale pull him out of his clothes, the human way, with warm fingers unbuttoning and brushing against his skin on their way down, the hot press of his mouth following behind. He didn’t even resort to supernatural powers to get Crowley’s tight jeans off, but by that point Crowley was actively contributing to what he realised was his own seduction, and that helped.

What he lacked in recent experience he tried to make up for in attention to detail: he knew how Aziraphale’s stupid little tie unfastened, and where to unclip his pocket watch. He had meant to place it on one of the bedside tables for safekeeping, but Aziraphale was kissing his stomach and pushing his knees apart so he shoved it blindly under the pillows and forgot about it instead. He needed his hands to hold on to Aziraphale, to take a soft fistful of his hair and not pull it (only the second time in six millennia: once in the 8th century BC he had reached over and rubbed a handful of particularly vibrant henna into those blond curls, and Aziraphale had astounded him by sitting quite still and letting him finish the job. They hadn’t seen each other for almost a century after that, but he had never forgotten the disturbing glimpse of red-haired, demonic transformation, nor the feel of the angel’s hair under his palms.)

Not a sound from the world outside made it into the room. The roar and hum of central London was shut out so completely that Crowley could hear his own breathing, high and fast, the hitch when Aziraphale slid slick fingers into him. It was nothing he hadn’t done before, there was no excuse for the way he just lay there and took it, writhing and panting on Aziraphale’s fingers as that tingle lit him up from the inside and began to melt his spine with pleasure.

“Oh my dear, you’re just - you’re lovely, you’re wonderful,” Aziraphale whispered, pressing his fingers deeper. “You’re - ”

Crowley squeezed his eyes closed. “Stop it,” he hissed.

Aziraphale went still.

“No, not _that_ you idiot, keep doing _that_ – I mean stop _saying_ things like that.” He was breathless, undone. He’d held it together through six thousand years of the worst that heaven, hell and humanity could throw at each other, an apocalypse that wasn’t, and one low-ranking angel telling him he was lovely in a hotel room would finally prove to be the one thing he couldn’t withstand.

Aziraphale kissed him by way of an answer, soft and deep. “Of course. Please forgive me,” he said against Crowley’s lips, and his voice was just as soft and deep as his kiss.

So he had wondered what Aziraphale would be like in bed. But when he’d thought about it, he had always assumed it would be characterised by the same uncertain diffidence that he brought to his earthly interactions, the same polite reluctance to direct, and in that Crowley had been quite mistaken. It was Aziraphale who nudged him to roll over onto his stomach, who kissed down the path of his spine and up again while Crowley let himself be guided, positioned, filled so perfectly that all he could do was lie there and gasp, press back for more and more and more.

“You – you’re _making love_ to me, aren’t you?” he panted, trying to put some of the old scorn into it. “Don’t think I can’t tell.”

Aziraphale’s hand found his, linked their fingers together.

“I can’t help it, Crowley: angels are beings of pure love.” Aziraphale’s voice wasn’t entirely steady any more either. “And I do – _oh_ – that is – you don’t mind, do you?”

They were on their own side now. What did it matter if he let the angel have his not-at-all wicked way with him? He could saunter down Regent’s Street with Aziraphale’s fingerprints all over him and it wouldn’t change a thing.

“Well, uh, just this once then,” he managed, as Aziraphale did something incredible with the depth and the angle and then he couldn’t say anything else, he could just call his name in a voice that didn’t sound like his own and ride it out, washed away on a wave of pure light and pleasure and love that seemed to reach all the way to his immortal soul.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathed in his ear. “I - ” his hips jerked and then he was clinging to Crowley, breath hot on his shoulder, coming undone and panting out his orgasm with his hand still tight in Crowley’s.

 

Neither of them moved for some time. It was sticky, and there was silence, but it didn’t seem at all the same kind of sticky or the same kind of silent as Crowley remembered. The sticky felt quite pleasingly debauched, and the silence sleepy and intimate. Besides, the whole length of Aziraphale’s body was pressed close against him, one arm tight around him, and Crowley didn’t have a word to say against any of it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began after a very long time, letting go to prop himself up on one elbow.

“Mm?”

“Can I tell you something?”

“If you absolutely must.”

“I _do_ like you, you know. You didn’t really believe me when I told you I didn’t, did you?”

“Oh shut _up_ , angel,” Crowley said, but as he said it he was turning over and pulling Aziraphale back down into his arms, and then he was kissing him and Aziraphale was kissing him back, so it seemed reasonably sure that whatever you called it when an angel and a demon did what they had just done in one of the nicest rooms of the Ritz, it could also reasonably be described as a sublime physical manifestation of divine love. So that was alright.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://deputychairman.tumblr.com/) experiencing Human Emotions in a Brand New Fandom!


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